


and the night is our own

by ama



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Affection, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Era, First Time, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, vaguely angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 03:09:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10958403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/ama
Summary: Malarkey ends up in Speirs's room one night. He was always going to end up here eventually.





	and the night is our own

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Miles Davis & The Cool," by the Gaslight Anthem, which is kind of my canon-era song for this too in that it's kind of wistful and bittersweet with an ambiguous ending. smut is not my forte so hopefully the mood at least is right.

He’ll never admit it. Not to anyone, not even the man in question. But if Malarkey is being totally honest with himself, he’s always been drawn to Speirs.

He hasn’t always acknowledged it, but it’s been there, lurking in the back of his mind. The first hint, maybe, was the way he reacted when he saw Speirs shoot those prisoners on D-Day—he knew what he’d seen but part of him had resisted, rejecting the obvious answer because… because why? Because Malarkey likes to see the good in people, and part of him knows Speirs is adhering to the rules of engagement. But also because he just can’t bring himself to turn away, and he doesn’t know why.

He avoids Speirs at first. He’s _allowed_ to avoid Speirs at first. But then Muck and Penkala die, and Bill and Joe and Buck all leave, and Malarkey is slipping away piece by piece and Speirs is his C.O. and he doesn’t have the goddamn energy to even figure out what this feeling is, let alone resist it.

“Malarkey.”

He’s cleaning his rifle, but he looks as Speirs enters the room and tries not to seem surprised. They’re in Hagenau, and as a rule officers don’t search out enlisted men in Hagenau. It’s supposed to be the other way around.

“Sir?”

“You’re not going on the patrol tonight,” Speirs says, curt and fast, his usual tone. He rests his hands on the back of a chair and taps his fingers against the upholstery. His eyes are scanning the windows behind Malarkey. “Sergeant Martin is leading instead.”

“I know, sir, Sergeant Lipton—Lieutenant?”

“Not yet.”

“First Sergeant Lipton sent a runner to let me know.”

“Good.” Speirs’s eyes slide down to inspect him. He wasn’t smiling before, but he’s frowning now. “Take the night off, sergeant. Get a good night’s sleep for once.”

“I’d prefer to observe the patrol, sir. I sent word to Sergeant Lipton that I’d provide covering fire for my men tonight, if that’s all right with you.”

He says the words tonelessly; he’s careful to avoid the slight insolence he lets himself use around Lieutenant Jones, because Speirs is hardly a green lieutenant, but he’s still new to the company and Malarkey wants to remind him that the NCOs are what’s keeping Easy together, even now. Speirs looks him up and down again.

“You look like hell, sergeant,” he says bluntly.

“Thank you, sir.”

Speirs stands up. Wordlessly, he tosses a pack of Lucky Strikes on the table in between them, turns, and leaves the room.

Malarkey stares at the pack, uncomprehending. Eventually he sets his rifle aside and picks up the crushed cardboard; the foil is ragged and pulled out of place, half sticking out the box, and there are only three cigarettes left, but still, he doesn’t know what to make of the offering. Speirs doesn’t share smokes. There’s a rumor that the whole reason he gave cigarette to the German POWs is so he won’t ever have to share smokes again. But there’s no point in speculating. Malarkey takes a cigarette out of the pack, lights it, and goes back to cleaning his rifle. There’s rust on the butt plate hinge spring.

That’s the first hint he gets that this thing might go both ways.

And after that, it’s always in the back of his mind, almost a physical reaction, the buzz in his ears he only notices in complete silence. His eyes follow Speirs. He only looks away when he has too—or when he senses Speirs’s eyes on him. He thinks that happens a lot, and once or twice he convinces himself he’s being ridiculous, but when he looks around, Speirs really is staring, and doesn’t bother to look away. Malarkey always breaks eye contact first. It’s dangerous to look at Speirs like that, he thinks, even though he’s not sure if he really believes it.

One day they’re running up a mountain in Austria, and Malarkey is focusing on the rhythmic thump of his boots against the ground and the reflective sheen of sweat on the back of Speirs’s neck, and now he knows that danger is not what he’s feeling. Which is not to say, of course, that what he’s feeling isn’t dangerous.

He pops a bottle of champagne in the Eagle’s Nest, and Speirs actually startles. He gives Malarkey a look like he could skin him if he wanted to, and Malarkey holds up in the bottle in a toast.

“Here’s to him.”

He turns away and takes a draught from the bottle. He’s made his decision, but he’s also decided he wants to be drunk for this. Easier that way. By the time the night rolls around and he’s found his way to Speirs’s door, he’s finished the bottle of champagne and made good progress on a second. He knocks on the door and when he gets no response he sits on the floor with his back to the wall. Where the fuck else does he have to be? The war’s over.

After a few minutes he hears footsteps on the stairs and then Speirs is there, frowning at him. Malarkey holds up the bottle out. Speirs wraps a hand around his wrist instead and pulls him up, and Malarkey stumbles against him.

“Are you drunk, sergeant?”

“Nope,” Malarkey says, and to prove it, he doesn’t kiss Speirs right there in the hallway. He waits and holds the other man’s gaze, and Speirs nods and opens the door.

Malarkey enters the room and unexpectedly feels skittish. He keeps walking, sets the champagne bottle on the nightstand and sits on the bed while Speirs locks the door. He realizes belatedly that he should have kept the bottle, because he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He just sits there with his hands folded, staring down at them while his stomach does backflips. Speirs’s boots appear in his view.

“Look at me,” he says in a voice that’s gentle around the edges but otherwise just the same as usual, and just as usual, Malarkey obeys. Speirs rests a hand on his jaw and leans down to kiss him.

It’s so easy. The hardest part of every kiss is waiting for it, but once it happens Malarkey lets his eyes drift shut and lets Speirs guide him, tugging softly on his lower lip, parting his mouth with his tongue, tipping his head back. The room is dark except for moonlight through the window, and quiet except for the sound of their breathing. When he notices this, he becomes self-conscious of his own breath. It’s quick and loud in the silence, and he’s momentarily embarrassed.

“Lie down,” Speirs murmurs against his mouth. His hand moves to Malarkey’s shoulder and pushes him onto the mattress.

“How many times do you think you’re going to order me around tonight?” Malarkey laughs. His voice seems loud, too, loud and jocular and normal, as if this was a normal thing.

“As much as I have to,” Speirs says, and now they know each other well enough for Malarkey to hear the smile in it.

He’s perpendicular to the mattress, but it’s wide enough that that’s not a problem. Speirs braces his knees against the edge of the bed and follows him down, propping himself up on his elbows, and Malarkey still has space to wiggle backwards and give him more room.

The next kiss is more real, more solid, and his heart jumps a bit as he realizes this is really fucking happening. He gasps into the kiss but Speirs doesn’t hesitate, kisses him through it and reaches up to card fingers through his hair. The movement, at once gentle and insistent, calms him down. Makes him bold, even—he reaches up and holds the back of Speirs’s head, and then the other man’s body is pressing him into the mattress. He’s kissing another man. There’s no denying this now, not with Malarkey’s fingers scraping against his short hair, not so long as he’s pinned against the bed by his body.

And that means there’s no turning back. His hands move again, one finding purchase on Speirs’s waist, the other settling on his shoulder blade, holding him close. Funny how their uniforms felt so thin in the Ardennes and so thick now, muffling his touch when he has this wild desire to dig his fingers into skin. He wants to feel hard muscle and heat; his own skin is on fire right down to his shoulders. Malarkey places one foot flat on the bed for balance and rocks up, and Speirs grunts. He bites Malarkey’s lip and pulls back to grasp the bottom of his jacket.

“Take—”

“I got that one, thanks,” Malarkey says quickly.

His voice doesn’t sound normal anymore, it sounds breathless and rough. He strips off his jacket and his overshirt, and then Speirs is impatiently pushing his undershirt over his arms. As Malarkey is tugging the fabric off, he thinks he feels the button of his fly pop open, and his heart skips a beat, but when he tosses the shirt in a corner, Speirs is sitting back on his heels and just staring at him.

“Perfect,” he mutters to himself, running a hand up Malarkey’s torso. “Fucking beautiful.”

Malarkey squirms—he’s not sure he likes being on display like this, and he reaches up to hook an arm around Speirs’s neck and pull him in for a kiss, but Speirs moves away, kisses down his jaw and presses his open mouth to Malarkey’s collarbone instead. He licks at one nipple and bites at the other, his rough fingers swiping back and forth at his sides, and Jesus Malarkey’s getting hard, way faster than he should be from a bit of necking, but it’s been a while.

Speirs straightens up and kisses him on the lips again—they’re done with gentle, this is wet and filthy and demanding—and then he kneels by the bed and drags Malarkey closer. He opens the front of his trousers and kisses just above the fabric of his briefs.

“Ready, sergeant?” he asks with a playful lilt to his voice. Malarkey swallows.

He hasn’t been thinking about what this means. He still isn’t. He’s putting it out of his mind because they’ve been hurtling towards this for too long to have second thoughts now.

“Yeah,” he says, but his voice cracks and he has to clear his throat. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Good,” Speirs says in that low summer-thunder voice.

He pulls Malarkey’s underwear down and, without hesitation, sucks the head of his cock into his mouth. Malarkey swears and grips the sheets tight. If he wasn’t fully hard before, he is now—now he’s half convinced he’s going to come in less than a minute, and the first thing that pops into his mind are the Normandy maps. He pictures them as vividly as he can and traces the paths, grid by grid, as Speirs bobs his head, taking more of him into his mouth. It works pretty well until Speirs pulls off suddenly with a wet _pop_ , spit dribbling down the side of Malarkey’s cock, and he moans, hips swaying into the air.

“Don’t come yet,” Speirs orders, but he sounds pleased with himself.

“Yessir,” Malarkey mumbles, but when Speirs swallows him down again he has to turn his face into the mattress to stifle a groan that belies his words.

He keeps up a constant stream of whispering, alternately _oh fuck_ and _oh god_ , because the steady, wet pressure from Speirs’s mouth and the targeted explorations of his tongue combined are just too good, like a shower sluicing away battlefield grime, a sip of champagne after weeks of beans and tinny water, and his control is shot. He sounds like an overwhelmed virgin, but he can’t fucking help it.

He reaches up unconsciously to thread his fingers through Speirs’s hair. It’s long, longer than it’s supposed to be, and soft. Speirs pulls off for a second and kisses the inside of Malarkey’s wrist, and his heart gives a funny lurch. Speirs smiles up at him like he knows what he’s thinking and bends his head again. Malarkey can’t see much at this angle, but suddenly he feels a wet fingertip pressing beneath his balls, then closer to the cleft of his ass, and he twitches, hand tightening in Speirs’s hair.

“What are you doing?” he asks sharply.

“What do you think?” Speirs shrugs, and bends down to press his tongue flat against the same spot.

“I don’t—I haven’t—” Malarkey sputters. Christ, is he ever going to get his dignity back from this?

Speirs stands—he’s hard, too, trousers tented, and Malarkey doesn’t know if it’s better to stare or look away—and stretches across the bed again, leaning in for a kiss. They kiss for a minute, and Malarkey’s heart calms down. The air is cool against his cock and he doesn’t feel like he’s about to burst anymore—small favors, he thinks, in the part of his mind that isn’t focusing on the light scrape of Speirs’s stubble against his cheek.

“C’mon, beautiful,” Speirs breathes into Malarkey’s ear, like he’s some Austrian milkmaid who needs convincing. “I’ll make you feel good, I promise,” and fuck if that bastard isn’t dragging his hand up Malarkey’s cock as he talks, hand slick with his own spit, as if he’s supposed to hold a conversation like that.

“Fuck you,” Malarkey manages, and a crooked grin spreads over Speirs’s face. He shrugs one shoulder.

“Why the hell not? I’m amenable.”

Speirs stands up and strips, and while he’s at it he unties Malarkey’s boots and helps divest him of his trousers all the way. Then he rummages through his pack, clattering with loot, and produces a small container. He unscrews the top and dips his finger in, and kneels on the bed to bring his fingers to his own asshole with little fanfare.

“Worth its weight in gold, that stuff,” he says conversationally. “Ideal for sodomy, in my humble opinion. Wait a minute—”

He rolls onto his back and lifts his hip in the air. The angle must be better; his mouth drops open and a soft noise escapes his lips. It starts as a groan and ends in a sigh, and it sends a little jolt down Malarkey’s spine.

Speirs’s hand works faster and splotches of pink appear on his cheeks. His eyes have drifted shut, but after a few minutes he opens them, and Malarkey can see his pupils are blown wide. He looks hungry. He leans over and mashes their mouths together, teeth clacking, and straddles Malarkey’s waist.

“You ready?” he pants. He’s reaching behind himself and grabbing hold of Malarkey’s cock, slicking him up with thick vaseline, and Malarkey groans.

“Yeah. Christ, yeah—”

The first push makes them both groan so loudly he thinks, for the first time, about whether they can be heard from the hallway. He discards the thought quickly. They’re solid, these old German buildings, and even if they weren’t, he doesn’t have the willpower to stop this from happening.

Speirs is so _tight_. He’s lowered himself on his haunches just enough to slip the head of Malarkey’s cock inside of him, holding it there with one hand and steadying himself against Malarkey’s stomach with the other. He has to stop there, eyes screwed shut in concentration, panting. After a minute he slides down a little more and his mouth falls open in a perfect _o_. His normally inscrutable face is an open book and his thighs are trembling. Malarkey can’t help himself from thrusting up, shallowly, and the hand on his stomach tightens, fingernails digging into his skin. Speirs shakes his head in a tight, quick motion.

“Give me—” He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Give me a minute—oh, God.”

He’s sucking in air and wiggling his hips side to side until finally he sinks the rest of the way down, ass flush against Malarkey’s lap. Malarkey pulls his legs up to give himself some leverage, and Speirs leans back against his legs and takes a minute to breathe. He tugs at his own cock, bringing it back to full hardness, and then finally, _finally_ , he starts to lift himself up and sit back down again. Malarkey is about to grip the sheets again but instead he takes hold of Speirs’s muscled thighs.

“Nothing fucking like this,” Speirs says in a strangled kind of voice, head tipped back to bare his throat. “Fuck Paris, who gives a—ah, _fuck_.”

He swallows again and gets a grip on himself. He rolls his whole body in one sinuous motion and Malarkey moans. He tries to thrust up but the way Speirs is positioned he can’t do much; the other man lifts away and leans forward, meeting his gaze with a hazy grin.

“What do you think you’re doing, beautiful?” he taunts.

“What do you think?” Malarkey shoots back, an echo from before.

“Stay still,” Speirs orders. “Didn’t I tell you I was going to make you feel good?”

He accompanies the words with a kiss, lips nudging Malarkey’s apart, and it’s a bit difficult to focus.

“I’m not a fucking—virgin,” he protests.

“No,” Speirs agrees, reaching behind him again. He settles back on Malarkey’s cock. “But you’re going to be patient and—fuck—still.”

Malarkey does his best, but fewer than five minutes have passed before he is convinced Speirs is going to drive him crazy. He’s alternating between those slow, full-body rolls that drive Malarkey’s cock deep inside him and a fast rocking motion that makes them both incoherent with stuttering moans. Before he didn’t know where to look, now he _can’t_ look away from Speirs. His body is appealing enough in general but the way he _moves_ is enough to make Malarkey’s gut twist with desire, and his gaze is even more intense than usual with his eyes darkened, his cheeks flushed, his hair falling in his face. His cock is dripping precome onto the trail of hair on Malarkey’s pelvis.

“Fuck, fuck—I’m gonna come,” Malarkey says through clenched teeth. His body is on fire and he turns his face, closing his eyes like that’s going to help.

“Don’t,” Speirs says sharply.

The son of a bitch makes a fist and hits beneath Malarkey’s knees strategically so his legs buckle and he’s lying flat on the bed, no leverage at all. Then he carefully lifts himself off of Malarkey’s cock and stays there, undulating slowly, just close enough for his ass to brush against the curve of Malarkey’s erection without actually _doing_ anything.

Malarkey’s eyes snap open and he glares at Speirs. He really shouldn’t be surprised that the bastard is smirking down at him.

“All right, that’s it.”

Malarkey pushes himself into a sitting position and slings an arm around Speirs’s back. It takes a bit of wrestling but he manages to roll them over and pin Speirs to the bed. The other man laughs and Malarkey grins and leans down for a kiss.

“That’s better.”

“I live to make you happy,” Speirs drawls, and he hooks a leg around Malarkey’s back. “As you were.”

He doesn’t draw it out; Malarkey enters him again and starts thrusting hard and fast. Speirs closes his eyes and tips his head back, sucking in deep gulps of air and every now and again letting out little noises, not deep enough to be groans but still guttural, primal, driving Malarkey faster and faster. He starts off holding himself up against the bed but after only a few minutes his arm collapses so he’s lying on top of Speirs, sweaty skin against sweaty skin, clutching him close as he ruts against him.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters against Speirs’s shoulder. “Oh, fuck, _Jesus_ , oh—”

“Come on,” Speirs breathed. “C’mon, just like that—”

It’s not an order but it may as well be. Malarkey squeezes his eyes shut and comes, mouth open around a choked-off gasp. _Fuck_ , it feels so good. Part of him wishes he had dragged it out more, just to take advantage of the novelty of not being in a rush, but maybe that was always a pipe dream, and in any case he can barely think beyond the pleasure of this moment. His heart is racing like crazy but he doesn’t care because his body feels limp and relaxed for the first time in too long, the echo of the slap of skin is still in his ears, and the room smells like sex. Speirs is running a hand through his hair—no, he’s pushing Malarkey’s head to the side, turning his face for a kiss. His body thrums with satisfaction.

“God, look at you,” Speirs huffs. “You look more fucked than I do.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It is from where I’m standing.”

“You’re not standing, you’re lying down and letting me do all the work,” Malarkey says with a dopey grin. “Typical officer.”

“And it’s not just like an NCO to critique the perfectly good work _I_ was doing, take over, and complain about _my_ laziness?” Speirs says, raising his eyebrows. He rolls over and straddles Malarkey’s waist again. “Forget that. If you’ve caught your breath enough to run your mouth, I think you can finish what you started, don’t you?”

He nibbles Malarkey’s neck and guides his hand back to his cock, still hard and heavy between his thighs. Malarkey licks his lips nervously.

“Okay,” he says, doing his best to sound confident. “Okay, yeah. Can you—can you sit—there?”

They rearrange themselves; Speirs sits on the edge of the bed and Malarkey kneels in front of him. At first he kneels on Speirs’s discarded jacket but the buttons are digging into his kneecap, so he shifts his weight and pushes all the clothes out of the way. Speirs spreads his knees and leans back on his hands. Malarkey avoids his gaze and focuses on his cock. It’s no use pretending he knows what he’s doing, but he can pretend to not be nervous. Pretend his mind isn’t going through a litany of _cocksucker pansy queer cocksucker cocksucker_ right now. That ship’s sailed already, hasn’t it?

He licks at the head to start, at the liquid beading around the slit. Speirs sighs and Malarkey thinks all right, that’s one thing done right, at least. He gets a good grip at the base and licks at the tip again, and before he can convince himself not to he parts his mouth and and takes the whole head at once. An unexpected zing goes up his spine; the whole room smells like dick and there’s something strangely erotic in tasting Speirs like this, in feeling his arousal so tangibly.

He knows he’s moving slowly—ironic, after he pestered Speirs for doing the same thing—but it takes more coordination that he expected. He works his way down the shaft and finds that he has to breath through his nose, and he has to swallow so he doesn’t start to drool, and it’s harder to hollow out his mouth without letting his teeth scrape skin. But still he’s aware of Speirs’s breathing above him, and he’s determined to actually _do_ something to make the other man feel good. He remembers something Speirs did earlier and swipes his tongue back and forth, curling just under the head. Speirs sucks in a breath, and then laughs.

“Fast learner,” he chuckles, and his fingers rub affectionately against Malarkey’s scalp. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’re doing just fine. Fuck.”

The last word comes out as a sigh, and Malarkey feels emboldened. He moves a little faster, sliding up and down Speirs’s cock, and feels steady enough to loosen his grip. He rubs his balls lightly and then, remembering, slides his fingers down towards Speirs’s asshole. He touches him hesitantly at first, just one finger rubbing back and forth against his entrance, and then Speirs hitches himself up so Malarkey has better access and mutters a curse.

He has to pull off Speirs’s cock, at that, and wipes a hand across his mouth. Speirs’s hole is stretched and slippery with come and vaseline, so he tries two fingers, thrusting them in shallowly. Speirs grunts.

“Does that really feel—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Speirs hisses. “Trust me, I’m not being altruistic here.”

He tangles his hand in Malarkey’s hair and guides him back down, helping him set the pace, and that’s actually helpful, Malarkey can just relax his mouth and do his best to keep the rhythm, his mouth on Speirs’s cock and his fingers in his ass, burrowing deep and dragging a series of gaspy moans from him.

“Another,” Speirs demands. Malarkey makes a questioning sound and he swears again. “Another finger, fuck, fill me up—fuck, yes—”

He tugs at Malarkey’s hair and Malarkey sits back on his heels, slipping a third finger into Speirs’s hole. The other man takes ahold of his cock and starts to strip it frantically, rocking his hips and shaking his hand so fast the bed squeaks beneath him. The look on his face is so nakedly desperate that Malarkey’s pretty sure he could come again, just looking at it, and finally Speirs bites his lip and comes with a deep, bitten-back moan.

Semen splatters on Malarkey’s chest; he finds his undershirt on the floor and wipes it off, and then uses it to clean his hand and his dick. He sits with his back against the bed for a moment. He feels the need to catch his breath, like Speirs is doing on the bed. After a moment, Speirs’s hand touches the top of his head, absently twisting a curl of hair around his index finger. Malarkey turns and looks at it for a moment. Then he reaches up to take hold of the forearm, and presses a kiss to the pulse point on the wrist. He lets go and Speirs lets his arm flop on the mattress between them.

They’re quiet for several minutes, and still. Malarkey sets aside his undershirt—he really doesn’t want it anymore—and starts to put on the rest of his clothes.

“You’re not staying?” Speirs asks. He sits up and Malarkey looks up at him.

Everything about him seems soft around the edges; his voice is breathy, his hair is rumpled, and there’s a light sheen of sweat on his skin. For a minute, Malarkey indulges his imagination. His eyes are heavy. He could happily lie down and go to sleep right now, and his heart starts to pound at the thought that he could lie down next to Speirs, pillow his head on the other man’s chest. God, he wants it. He should be exhausted but this is a whole other kind of desire pulsing through him.

Malarkey closes his eyes and shakes his head. He can’t admit he wants it, and if he’s being really honest, he doesn’t believe Speirs could give it, either. He’s not that kind of man. Neither of them are.

“No,” he says, the word coming out strangled. He tries again and this time his voice is louder, stronger, casual. “No, I don’t think I should. Someone might come around.”

“Right.” Speirs watches him with piercing eyes as he finishes getting dressed. “Good night, sergeant,” he says when Malarkey pauses with his hand on the doorknob. He doesn’t know what to say to that, but he nods and slips out the door.

On the other side of the doorway he freezes. His heart leaps in his throat—he’s changed his mind—he wants to go back—he wants to feel warm air tickling his hair as Speirs whispers in his ear, he wants to curl up against his side and forget everything except the pleasant weight of an arm around his shoulders—

The door closes behind him with a decisive thud.


End file.
